


Lab safety procedures are important - TopLock version

by TooManyChoices



Series: The Genetic manipulation series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bottom John, First Time, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Poor lab practices, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was bound to happen. Sherlock and John break into one too many labs and are exposed to...something.<br/>The something changes their genetic code, exposing them to the Alpha/Omega mutation.<br/>The rest...as they say.....is history</p><p>Fancy your Alpha/Omega a little more TopJohn instead of TopLock. There's now an alternate version over here http://archiveofourown.org/works/4003984</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lab safety procedures are important - TopLock version

Sherlock glanced down as the distinctive chime echoed off the stark walls of the lab.

**Where are you – MH**

Sherlock irritably tapped back

**Cascade Labs, on a case – SH**

He paused and then added

**Go away - SH**

John glanced up from the files he was rifling through and Sherlock mouthed _Mycroft_ before rolling his eyes as the phone chimed again

**Which floor? - MH**

When it became apparent no reply was forthcoming, the phone chimed again

**It’s important dear brother – high risk of contamination – MH**

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at John, now lifting and inspecting bottles with bare hands and tapped back.

**Floor 17, advise risk – SH**

He waited, staring at the screen for what seemed like hours before the response finally flashed up

**Don’t leave….OMW with team. – MH**

**Bad? – SH**

**DO NOT LEAVE – MH**

**--**

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock and John were still waiting, John sitting on one of the desks, legs swinging gently, Sherlock standing beside him leaning easily against the edge.

“We should just leave,” Sherlock muttered petulantly.

“We’re not leaving until we find out what we’ve been exposed to, and that’s the end to it.”

Sherlock snorted in a way that could only be described as deeply disapproving yet acquiescent and crossed his arms, tucking his chin down and proceeded to sulk in an unlikely upright pose.

.

.

.

.

.

 

“But why can’t we…..”

“No!”

.

.

.

.

.

“If it had been……”

“No! Sherlock…..no.” John was unwavering. While John would admit that Mycroft’s information had been sparse to the point of being unhelpful, the fact remained that at this point there was every chance that the short trip home could unleash a plague of biblical proportions on the unsuspecting London public. Regardless of how bored (and therefore annoying) Sherlock got, it just wasn’t worth the risk.

.

.

.

.

.

Sherlock cast a hopeful glance at John after another twenty minutes only to receive another firm shake of the head…..sulking resumed.

.

.

.

.

.

When the ten men in bio-hazard suits arrived, they had their first moment of genuine concern. Up to this point, they’d been relatively sure that whatever the issue, Mycroft was likely overreacting, and that the consequences of their ‘unofficial’ visit to the lab would be a stern word from Sherlock’s brother and a solid commitment to never do such a thing again.

Three hours of decontamination procedures, flimsy temporary overalls and being driven back to Baker Street in the back of an unmarked van had a way of convincing even the surliest of consulting detectives that perhaps, just perhaps, this time he’d gone too far.

Waiting in the foyer of Baker Street, Mycroft’s usual imperious façade was distressingly absent and for once, John would have taken comfort from the familiar smugness. Instead, Mycroft stood aside as his brother climbed the 17 steps, John trailed after them in silence. The sorry convoy was completed by the team of twelve that had accompanied them from the lab.

**--**

The following hours were a nightmare. Having undergone complete bio-hazard scrubbing at the lab, John and Sherlock were now granted permission to change out of the disposable onesies and into clean clothes. Sherlock’s suit and coat were gone, as were John’s jeans and a rather nice red and black jumper that he’d become quite fond of. In normal circumstances, ending the day in the sitting room of 221B in pyjamas, robes and with a warm drink in their hands would signal the end to a good day. But this was anything but.

At some point, while John and Sherlock had been changing in their rooms, their blood tests had arrived. When the two men returned to the sofa the look on Mycroft’s face had become, if anything more alarming. He sat in John’s chair, reading the results, pausing and tapping thoughtfully on the table at irregular intervals. Finally, he stood and consulted with several members of his team, nodding toward the men sitting side-by-side looking like teenagers caught behind the shed.

Finally, two members of the team approached and gestured for Sherlock to follow them to the kitchen while another person sat down beside John. It was the first direct attention either of them had received since returning to the room, and Sherlock’s patience was running short.

He angrily shrugged off the hand on his arm, “Tell us together.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s conciliatory tone only making the situation worse.

“No, Mycroft. Whatever your worker-bees have to say to us, you can say to us both. We’re in this together, after all.”

Mycroft released an exasperated breath and moved to stand closer to his brother, “We’re not trying to separate the two of you, Sherlock. In fact the opposite is very definitely true. But the situation is such that your immediate…..” he paused, looking for an appropriate word, “…treatment, requires different information for each of you.”

Sherlock cast a glance back to John and the determined yet concerned frown was enough to reconcile him to the fact that in this, as in most medical matters, he’d take John’s lead. Without another word, he lead his two shadows to the kitchen and crossed his arms, waiting.

**--**

“Well that’s patently ridiculous!” Sherlock showed all the symptoms of an approaching tantrum of truly epic proportions.

“Nevertheless sir, it remains true. If you’ll just read….” The dour man in the dark suit again offered the thick blue folder.

“I’m not interested in reading some fictitious government report designed to excuse some aberrant mutation.” Sherlock knocked the file away, “John!”

He looked through the opening from the kitchen only to find John swallowing two non-descript tablets before returning his attention to a similar file, this one green. He had one hand on the page and the other buried in his grey-blonde hair, rubbing in a nervous habit Sherlock only saw when the situation was dire.

Taking a deep breath, he turned back to take the file and asked in what he hoped sounded less angry, “…..alright…tell me again.”

“The two of you have been exposed to a highly experimental genetic manipulation agent. We call it….” He paused as Sherlock’s eyes flashed with impatience, “…it doesn’t really matter what we call it. The material was originally designed to assist infertile couples, however the side-effects have been substantially more far-reaching than expected.”

Sherlock sat heavily on a kitchen chair, scanning and consuming the material in the folder, “And we’ve both been infected?”

“Yes sir, you’ve been exposed to the Alpha strain and your…..partner,” He glanced up at Mycroft and received a subtle nod at the term, “….to the Omega strain. I’m sorry to say both your genetic makeups have been compromised.”

Sherlock flipped through the pages, speed reading, “The side-effects appear to be very poorly documented. Is it lethal?” He didn’t look up as he asked, but there was a quaver in his voice.

“No sir, not lethal. But the consequences to you both will be…..profound is probably the best word.”

Sherlock closed the file and placed it on the table with finality, “Tell me what the file DOESN’T say.”

**--**

By the time the team left, Sherlock had come to terms with the truth of their situation. He’d been permitted to cross-check his and John’s bloods himself and although most of the results made little sense, it was clear that they were far from normal. With the exception of a sharp headache making focussing through the eye-piece of his microscope difficult, Sherlock felt little different and was beginning to hope that the reports were wrong when the smell hit him.

 _Why is someone making cinnamon toast? And when did we buy a pine tree?_ Without conscious thought, Sherlock tilted his head back, allowing his jaw to gape slightly and drew the savoury-sweet smell across his tongue and up through his sinuses. _Oh…that’s….delicious._

“John? John, can you smell……” Sherlock turned, expecting to see John still on the sofa pouring over the reports. Instead, John was curled with his back to the room, shivering violently.

“John!” Sherlock was halfway across the room before he realised that the smell was infinitely stronger on John’s side of the room. The odour flooded his senses and by the time he fell to the floor next to his flatmate he was salivating, “John…what’s wrong?”

“Cold…..I’m so cold, and I ache all over. Think I picked up a flu at that lab,” He tried for a laugh but it came out bitter and weak.

“Can’t trust modern labs, they leave things laying about all over the place……” Sherlock took a tentative sniff and then leaned in, drawing a longer breath, “It IS you…..” he added thoughtfully.

“What’s me?” John rolled over, releasing another wave of scent.

“God….” Sherlock reared back as fireworks went off along his nerve-endings, “You smell…..” he trailed off.

“I smell like what…” John lifted an arm and sniffed warily. “I washed this morning.”

“You really can’t smell that?” Sherlock leaned toward John’s raised arm, his head spinning as the scent concentrated, “You smell…..amazing.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, “Well…I FEEL…like shit. I’m going to bed, help me up will you.” He reached out an arm and Sherlock grasped it at the wrist.

John’s legs however, had other ideas and buckled the moment he left the sofa. Sherlock braced himself as he slid his arms under John’s to take his weight.

“God…cramps, damn, sorry..I’ll….” John tried to right himself on his wobbly legs as Sherlock simply stood and supported him, arms tight, “Fuck….Jesus, that’s embarrassing..I think I’ve…God, can you get me to the bathroom, something’s wrong….downstairs.” John blushed and glanced in the direction of his pyjama pants.

Meanwhile, every twist and move John made seemed to be adding to the fog around them, thick and cloying and Sherlock was struggling not to just lean down and lick John’s neck to see if he tasted as good as he smelled. For the first time in more than ten years, he found himself rock hard in his own pyjamas and silently battled his own embarrassment as he simultaneously tried to hold himself away from his flatmate while he inexplicably ached to move closer.

In an odd, conjoined shuffle they made it to the bathroom, by which point asking Sherlock to remain outside would have been fruitless. John was rapidly losing the ability to support his own weight and Sherlock was similarly losing the desire to let John go.

While Sherlock turned his back to grant him some privacy, John peeled off his sodden pyjamas and quizzically investigated the slippery fluid coating the inside.

“What the……” John sat on the cold toilet seat confused and shuddering, the wet fabric in his hands, “Sherlock, I don’t think this is….”

Sherlock turned back just as John lifted his arm and with a speed that surprised them both his hand shot out to grasp John’s wrist, dragging it and the soiled pants toward Sherlock’s face.

With a shattered moan, Sherlock fell to his knees and bunched the fabric to his nose, Rubbing his face against it like a cat scenting catnip.

“Christ Sherlock, don’t do that…they’re filthy.”

“Can’t…stop…” Sherlock’s voice came out strangled and muffled within the folds, deep and predatory, “smells….like you…smells….” He lifted his face away, pupils blown dark and hungry, “….smells….. like sex.”

“Sherlock….” John’s heart skipped an unsteady beat at the tone and he responded carefully, grimacing as another cramp gripped him and he heard a wet splashing under him in the toilet, “You’ve gone a bit weird, you OK?”

Sherlock shook his head desperately and scuttled backward toward the opposite wall, breathing shallowly through his mouth, “No…I don’t think I am. John..” He asked tentatively, “Did you read the section on Omega heats?”

“Yes but……” his eyes widened, “SERIOUSLY! You’re an Alpha? They might have told me.”

“They probably weren’t expecting this so soon. I think it was only an afterthought that they told me about you.” Sherlock’s breathing was becoming more laboured by the minute.

“Well shit!” John winced as another wave of cramps hit him and he began to connect the slowly building warmth and fizzing in his veins with the cause, “How long do you think I’ve got before…..” John looked like he wanted to crawl under a rock, “Jesus, before I’m begging you to fuck me?”

Sherlock sat against the wall; his hands balled info fists and looked back, desperation I his eyes, “About as long as I have before I’m begging you to let me, I fear.”

There was a still and silent moment as their eyes met, needy and uncontrolled, before John sighed and blinked. “I’m glad it’s you,” he said quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes widened momentarily before he nodded and whisper, almost too low to hear, “I want it to be me.”

Suddenly, although the desperation remained, the fear was gone and it was simply John and Sherlock again, the two of them against the world, together in adversity and revelation. Sherlock uncurled his fingers and said gently but firmly, “No regrets?”

John held his gaze, becoming calm and ready to face anything, “No regrets….Sherlock?”

“John?”

“Take me to bed.”

**--**

“Well, this isn’t the way I expected to end the day.” John was tucked into Sherlock’s bed, the feel of his obscenely high thread-count sheets soft against his increasingly sensitive skin.

Sherlock responded with a querying grunt. He was was sprawled proprietorially across John, his nose buried against a rough patch of skin at the base of John’s neck which seemed to hold the greatest concentration of the mysterious pheromone and luxuriating in the waves of heat that seemed to be rolling from John.

“You and me….ending up in bed together.” John continued, pausing to squirm as Sherlock licked the skin again and he felt another gush of slick wetness dampen his thighs, “Bloody hell, do that again…” he murmured before adding, “I’d sort of….given up.”

Sherlock obliged by firmly licking the spot again, and then lifted his head, brow creasing, “I wasn’t aware you’d been trying….not after that first night.”

“Well, you made it pretty clear at Angelo’s that I should back off.”

“Possibly the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I’ve wanted to take those words back so many times.” Sherlock burrowed impossibly closer, “SO many times.”

“So you do want me?” whispered John, awestruck. Every inch of his skin seemed alive to Sherlock’s touch, firecrackers of sensation exploding wherever the fingers lingered.

“Want you…wanted you….will always want you, pick a tense John, and it applies.” Sherlock said absently, running fingers along shallow grooves between John’s muscles.

John shuddered, “God, I can feel another wave of shakes coming. I’m not sure how long I can stand this” He turned on his side, curling into a foetal position.

“Come here, I’ll hold you.” Sherlock curled up behind him, spooning tightly against and winding his long arms around John’s chest.

After the worst subsided, John asked hesitantly, “Sherlock…..not that I want to give you permission to boast, but that’s a pretty significant…umm….weapon you have pressed against my arse. Is that all for me?”

Sherlock tilted his hips forward, “You really didn’t read the Alpha bit, did you? Apparently some…..increase is expected.”

“Increase? It feels enormous!” John could no longer resist the urge to wriggle backward, and was surprised when a needy whimper slipped from Sherlock as the firm flesh slipped easily along the wet crack of his arse.

Sherlock hissed an urgent warning and stilled John’s hips with his hands, “John….stop….you have to…..,” Sherlock leaned in close and gripped John tight as he mumbled against John’s skin, “God, I want you….” Before breathing out harshly through his nose, “Alphas apparently struggle with control during rut. I’m on the edge as it is, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

“I’m not asking you to stop, I need it…I need…you” John asked roughly, “Just…..try and be careful, Let’s see how it goes. But hurry…..please” He was surprised how quickly the whining tone had crept into his voice.

Sherlock’s already deep voice seemed to drop another octave as he growled and tipped his hips forward again, more purposeful and slid along John’s cleft again, deeper this time. “You’re….sure? I won’t be able to ask again.”

“Fuck, Sherlock…I’m sure. I feel like I’m losing myself….and you’re the only thing that will keep me sane.”

“I’ll…… see how open you are.” Sherlock managed through gritted teeth, holding himself firmly in check and eased back, intending to run his cock over John’s now dripping hole, but the surprise at finding it already loose and relaxed made him stop, tentatively pressing the head against the slippery opening.”

“Christ, Sherlock…Fucking Christ…now….need you!” John’s litany of profanity wiped all thought of Sherlock stopping as Omega instincts reacted to the feeling of being breached and John pushed his hips backward against Sherlock’s, driving him deeply inside.

“John….mine….Oh God….mine…” Sherlock rumbled as his awareness slipped away, Hips pulling back before driving back in again, all thought of care forgotten as he threatened to push John off the side of the bed with the force of his thrust.

“Yes…..YES!” John’s back arched as he distantly thought _He’s mine…..he wants me_ as he clawed at the sheets trying to shift under Sherlock, intuition driving him to try and scrabble onto all fours, pressing his arse upward against Sherlock’s groin even as he tried to roll below him.

After a growl of frustration, Sherlock’s Alpha nature worked out what John was trying to do and grabbed his hips hard, practically shoving John below him to get better leverage to thrust.

“Good John, good……So clever….my clever, clever John.” Sherlock was muttering, his language so unlike his usual carefully chosen words. A distant part of Sherlock’s foggy mind recoiled in horror at the simplistic, possessive language and he expected, at any moment for John to push him away _Please God…no..not now.._ and tell him to just fuck off.

But John just rumbled happily, somewhere between a purr and a growl, arching his back and steadying himself against the headboard of Sherlock’s bed as he was shoved forward over and over again. Between hurriedly gasped breaths John was hissing a broken litany of “Yes..” and “HARDER…” and “more…I need MORE, Sherlock….”

What remained of Sherlock’s rational mind, jammed tight into a corner of his mind palace, wondered briefly at both the wanton abandon that had gripped them both, and the wondrous, effortlessness of the dynamic between them.

Whilst physically in the dominant position, there was nothing submissive in John’s tone or bearing. While Sherlock’s words may have suggested ownership, the way John was without hesitation, demanding Sherlock serve and pleasure him was nothing but authoritative and with a rush of lust Sherlock conceded he was us much John’s slave as his master.

Reinforcing the fact, John reached back to peel Sherlock’s bruising fingers from his hip and dragging his arm down to encircle John’s cock, wordlessly giving a directive that Sherlock obeyed without question. A deep, intuitive need to do whatever John desired rushed through his veins. Bringing pleasure to John was the first, last, and every thought driving his actions.

 _That’s not to say there’s nothing in it for me…_ Sherlock thought as he curled down over John’s back, using the hand not busy stroking John to steady himself against John’s spine and leaving John to support their combined weight. Sweat plastered his curls to his forehead as he dimly categorised this as the best sex he’d ever had… _that ANYONE’S ever had probably_.

Orgasm was curling lazily, seemingly content to allow him to revel in the tight wet heat of John’s body for as long as he desired .. _and I desire quite a lot…_ and his legs and abdominals seemed to be holding up to the frantic demands of his partner with surprising willingness. Muzzily he thought…. _I could do this all day._

John however seemed to have other ideas as John’s voice took on a darker, more demanding tone as the shorter man shifted to spread himself wider, “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock…I need it….will you…..fucking hell…”

The insistent, angry quality to John’s voice spurred Sherlock to quicken both his thrusts and his strokes, briefly distracted by an odd tingling that had begun at the base of his cock, where it slammed against John’s hole over and over again.

“Yes…..C’mon Sherlock…..yes…that’s….keep….doing that.” The scent still surrounding John seemed to change between one heartbeat and the next and the rough patch of skin on John’s neck blushed a ruby-red, attracting Sherlock’s attention.

“John…..” Sherlock rumbled, struggling to lean toward the beckoning patch of skin, “….John…” the base of his cock was swelling, pressing against John’s stretched hole with each thrust.

“Want….Want…..Christ…..” John was braced against the headboard, pushing back as hard as Sherlock pushed forward, “Damn….need more…Sherlock… _please_ ” he keened.

“Want to….” Sherlock huffed out between breaths, barely able to articulate what his instincts were demanding he do, “….want to bite…let me…Oh God, John..let me..”

“Yes….Do it….Fuck…do it.” John arched up from the head board, bringing his neck closer without even questioning the imperative.

With a feral growl, Sherlock moved his hand to grip John’s shoulder and sank his teeth into the skin around the now scarlet skin, at which point, several things happened in rapid succession:

  *          With a scream of relief, John reflexively shoved backward from the headboard, forcing Sherlock’s teeth deeper and the swelling at the base of Sherlock’s cock past the ring of muscle at John’s hole.
  *          Sherlock gave a long shattered moan around the skin under his teeth and he felt his cock throb in release deep inside John.
  *          John came messily over Sherlock’s hand and the sheets under them with a long and relieved groan.



With a gasp of shock, Sherlock detached his teeth as carefully as possible and looked at the ruined skin surrounding the now angry red mark. “Jesus, I’m sorry John. I didn’t mean to bite that hard,” he panted.

John rolled his shoulders, “Can’t see it, but seems OK. It’s numb. Anyway, I pushed back. It’s as much my fault…Hell, I’m exhausted.”

Sherlock tentatively eased back, only to be stopped by a hiss of discomfort from John as his still swollen cock caught on the inside of John’s hole. Looking down between their hips where they remained joined he gently probed the skin before settling back closer again.

“Looks like we’re staying like this for a bit.” Sherlock ventured carefully, “Here, roll over.” He gently eased then both onto their sides so they were curled together in the bed.

They lay in pensive but sated silence for a minute or two, their enforced closeness preventing them from retreating to try and come to grips with the sudden changes to their lives.

“You alright?” Sherlock’s voice eased around John’s neck.

“Yeah.” John replied absently, drifting back to silence.

After another minute, “Sure?” This time, there was clear concern in his voice.

John turned his head slightly at the tone, “Yeah..sorry, was a bit….distracted. Yeah, I’m OK.” After a pause, “You?”

“Yes, I think so.” Any more that he intended to add was cut short by a grunted gasp.

“Was that?....” John asked, wonderingly.

Sherlock gave an awkward laugh, “I think I just came again….sorry. That doesn’t usually….happen.”

John settled more comfortably against Sherlock and smiled, “Fair to say none of this is something that’s happened to either of us before. Well….” He turned to glance over his shoulder as best he could, “not like this…anyway.”

Sherlock eased an arm around John’s chest and tugged him close, “No….not like this. No regrets?”

John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, “None. Although….” John shifted as he felt Sherlock pulse inside him again, “I’m feeling a bit…..full, if you know what I mean.”

“I wish I had the files in here.” Sherlock’s reasoning was back in full force, and the lack of information on what they should expect next was beginning to worry him.

“Well, until you finish….” John sighed and wriggled against Sherlock’s still solid cock, “Whatever it is your body’s doing, I suppose there’s little chance of us getting them. You may as well get some sleep.”

Sherlock huffed a frustrated breath and softly kissed the wounded mark on John’s neck, “I’m not tired, but you rest. You need it.”

With a small contented noise, John conceded defeat and tucked his head down, his eyes closing, wrapped in Sherlock’s arms.

**--**

“John….” Sherlock’s whispered voice roused John from an odd dream of horseback riding through a Tsunami.

“Mmmmmm.” John blearily responded.

“We don’t have much time.” Sherlock was crouched at the side of the bed to bring him in line with John’s face. As wakefulness returned, John realised that while he’d been sleeping, Sherlock had obviously been able to separate them and there were water bottles, packets of biscuits and beef jerky piled on the side table. Clean towels sat at the foot of the bed and Sherlock’s eyes were glittering in the dim light of the room.

“For what?” John rubbed his eyes and levered himself up to grab a bottle.

“Until what, is more correct” Sherlock clarified, “From what little useful information was in those files, this evening was just the start. From the way your scent is building, I’d say we have little more than half an hour before we’re in for round two.”

John choked on his water and looked at the pile of food again, “How many rounds ARE there?”

“Hard to say.” Sherlock pushed open the door of the bathroom and John heard the distant sound of the shower as Sherlock’s voice echoed back, “Experiments seem to say about three days.”

John’s knew his shout would be clearly audible, even over the water, “THREE DAYS!”

**--**

By the end of the third day, it was John refilling the water bottles and rinsing towels, hanging them over the shower rail before staggering back to bed. Sherlock’s abdominal muscles were on the edge of cramping with lactic build-up and his legs would no longer hold him up, muscle fatigue having drained his reserves.

As each wave of John’s heat ended, the unspoken prayers that perhaps this would be the last one had become more vehement, and more plaintive. They napped sporadically and uneasily, only to be awoken by a fresh wave of wetness between John’s legs and a renewed erection at Sherlock’s groin.

“I hate my penis.” Sherlock muttered bitterly, laying flat on his back now that the erection had subsided and they were allowed some precious minutes as separate entities.

John chuckled weakly beside him, rolled on his side to give his aching arse some respite, “I hate your penis too.”

Oddly enough, the one thing that had remained undamaged throughout the ordeal had been their friendship. Somewhere around the middle of day two, John had muttered _The two of us against the rest of the world_ and it had seemed the funniest thing in the history of their relationship. Hysterical giggles had overtaken them both and as John desperately sought satisfaction, bouncing with abandon on Sherlock’s lap they tried to grab frantic lungfuls of air around uncontrolled laughter.

As the minutes ticked slowly by and the air cleared, Sherlock offered a hopeful “I think it’s stopped.”

“Seriously?” John asked weakly, “How sure are you?”

“Pretty sure,” Sherlock drew in a long, careful breath, “No more cinnamon and pine on the breeze.”

“Oh…thank GOD!” John practically shouted before back-peddling, ‘Not that it wasn’t….that I don’t….”

Sherlock chuckled and reached out a hand, blindly grasping until John’s slipped into his, “Don’t worry, I feel the same.”

“So….we’re good?” John drew Sherlock’s hand to his chest, inexplicably missing the intimate contact of the past days, now it appeared it was over.

Sherlock nodded and turned his head, tired eyes seeking John’s, “We’re great….we’re beyond great.”

An easy quiet settled as the two men relaxed in each other’s presence.

“John, there’s some things we need to discuss. Ramifications, as it were.” Sherlock was clearly hesitant.

“Yeah, I’ve been reading about that. You’re talking about the bite?” John answered immediately.

“Yes, that and….procreation.” Sherlock stumbled over the word.

“Ahhh, yes. Well apparently they dosed me before they left. I didn’t question the tablets, thought they were some weird anti-radiation thing, but they were definitely a contraceptive.”

“Oh…right…” Sherlock seemed to mull that over, “and the…..”

“Bonding bite?” John finished his sentence.

Sherlock nodded looking pained.

“Doesn’t bother me, does it bother you?” John’s smile was definitive and a little hopeful. He clasped Sherlock’s hand to his chest a little tighter.

Sherlock shook his head wonderingly, “No…it’s….no.” he said quietly, “….it doesn’t….bother me at all.”


End file.
